


The Space Between

by FriendofCarlotta



Series: Season 15 Codas [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (sort of), Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Chuck's a+ parenting, Coda for 15.15 (Gimme Shelter), Daddy issues all around, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Special Guest Appearance by THAT PICTURE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27064534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta
Summary: With Jack's life at risk, the price of failure in the fight against Chuck has never been clearer. But in the space between missions, Dean and Castiel find an opportunity for closeness and comfort.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Season 15 Codas [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975264
Comments: 32
Kudos: 139
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	The Space Between

**Author's Note:**

> This one really, really fought me. There was a lot to love about the episode ("I have more dads than most" - Jack is a precious babe), but also so much that bothered me. I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
> 
> This can be read as a sequel to ["The Significance of Pie"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26914954) because it's based on the same headcanon, but it can absolutely stand on its own.
> 
> Fair warning: this is unbetaed, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes, typos, etc. I might have missed.
> 
> The action picks up right after Cas shares the news about Jack. Enjoy!

_You're part of who I am_

_Even if we're worlds apart_

_You're still in my heart_

_It will always be you and me_

_You can find me in the space between_

_Where worlds come to meet_

***

“Well, fuck.”

Dean slumps heavily into one of the chairs at the library table, whiskey bottle in hand. The glass bottom hits the dark, polished surface with a _thunk_ that echoes across the cavernous room.

“You see now why I’m trying to find another solution,” Castiel says, pulling out the chair to Dean’s left. He carefully tucks his legs in, to keep from touching Dean’s where they’re sprawled under the table. Castiel has learned many things about Dean over the years, and one of them is that he needs his space when he’s processing bad news.

“Yeah.” Dean takes a swig from the bottle, then pushes it along the table at Castiel. “Have some. You look like you could use it.”

Castiel nods his thanks, but halfway through the motion of raising the bottle to his lips, he realizes there’s something else Dean should know. “Jack didn’t want me to tell you and Sam.”

Dean frowns at him, confused. “Why the hell not?”

“He thinks,” Castiel says, finally taking that first sip, “that sacrificing himself is the only way he’ll earn your forgiveness.”

He expects the confusion on Dean’s face to give way to anger, like it so often does; instead, there's only an odd blankness, and if anything, that’s worse. Castiel holds millennia of human and angelic knowledge in his mind, but the puzzle of Dean’s emotions is one that will forever elude him.

As if to prove that point, Dean’s expression changes again, his lips curving down in dismay, lines of distress carving deep furrows into his forehead. Castiel’s hand twitches with the desire to reach out and cup Dean’s cheek.

When Dean speaks, his voice is a scraped, almost inaudible rasp. “When the fuck did I turn into my dad?”

“What do you mean?” Castiel asks, surprised.

Dean shakes his head and waves a hand at Castiel, a silent request for the bottle. Castiel slides it over. “One of the first hunts I ever worked with my dad, we were cleaning out a vamp nest. Was supposed to be an easy job, and all I had to do was stay with the victim who was still alive, while Dad killed the stragglers.” Dean takes a drink, and he sounds a little steadier when he says, “Turns out there was one that got past him. Dad gave me a machete, just in case, but I froze. Just watched as that vamp walked right out the back door.”

Castiel has heard enough stories about John Winchester over the years to make an educated guess as to what comes next. He can feel the first crackling of his grace in the tips of his fingers and the core of his chest, waiting to erupt from him and smite a man who has been dead for ten years. To calm himself down, he tucks his legs in tighter and forces his attention to dwell on the sensation of his fingernails scraping against the wood grain of the table.

“I didn’t tell him at first.” Dean exhales a mirthless chuckle. “I was fourteen, and I was more scared of my dad than I was of some vamp I probably wasn’t ever gonna see again. ‘Course, just before we left for our next case, we got word of a vamp kill the next town over.” Dean stares down at the label of the whiskey bottle, unseeing. “It was the vamp I let get away. Dad captured him and made him talk. Got the whole damn story from the guy before he took his head off.”

“What did your father do to you?” Despite Castiel’s best efforts at control, the tattered remnants of his power scrape at the edges of his being; a sparking and thundering of grace-fueled rage asking to be set free.

For several moments, Dean doesn’t answer. He studies the bookshelves across the room, the weapons mounted in pride of place above them. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, worrying at the label on the bottle with his thumb. “Point is, next time we hunted vamps, I made damn sure there were none left. One of them got me in the shoulder with his fangs, and I was bleeding like a stuck pig, but I kept on fighting. I knew my dad’d be so proud, and he’d forgive me for letting that other vamp get away.” Dean inhales wetly, his gaze still fixed on the far side of the room. “You know what he said to me when the last vamp was dead?”

Dean’s eyes slide to Castiel’s face, and Castiel meets them.

“He said, ‘We’ll stitch you up before we drive back, so ‘s you don’t bleed all over the upholstery in the car. It’s a bitch to clean.’” There’s a dull hopelessness to Dean’s eyes, his voice, when he says, “I damn near killed myself so many freaking times for that man’s approval. So he’d forgive me for things that weren’t my fault in the first place. And now I’m doing the same damn thing to my own son.”

Castiel rises off his chair, caution and the need for space be damned. In one smooth motion, he reaches for Dean’s hand and pulls him up and along, down the corridor that leads to the bedrooms.

Dean comes willingly. He knows what the change of venue means, just as well as Castiel does. They rarely exchange affectionate gestures where others can see; this thing between them has always belonged to the darkness, the space between hunts and missions. Sometimes, months will go by without a kiss, years without a sexual encounter, but as of today, only a week has passed since they last shared a bed. Perhaps, with the end of this last great fight hurtling towards them, there’s a renewed urgency to pack a lifetime’s worth of touches into however much time remains to them.

When they reach Dean’s bedroom, there’s only the faint glow of a desk lamp to see by, but it’s enough. Castiel sheds his coat and shoes before he lies down on the bed, opening his arms for Dean to slide into. Dean settles against him with a small sigh, draping himself across Castiel’s chest.

“You are not John Winchester,” Castiel whispers into the short, slightly shower-damp strands of Dean’s hair. “Just as I am not Chuck.”

Dean snorts, a puff of warm, wet air against the front of Castiel’s shirt. “I know you’re not Chuck. Chuck is a petty asshole.” Dean looks up, one cheek still resting on Castiel’s chest. “You’re an asshole, but you’re not petty.”

“Don’t deflect,” Castiel says softly, running a fingertip along the soft hair at the nape of Dean’s neck and relishing the shudder his touch elicits. “You are _not_ John Winchester.”

Dean ducks his head again, and Castiel, even with his angelic hearing, has to strain to understand the words mumbled into the fabric of his shirt: “You didn’t even know him.”

“True,” Castiel says, thoughtfully. “But you’ve told me about him. And I know _you_.” He allows his hand to wander a little lower, past the collar of Dean’s robe and under his t-shirt to explore the warm skin of his upper back. “Better than anyone else could.”

Dean rolls off Castiel and onto the other side of the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. “Pretty sure I get my anger issues from him. Amara said she…” Castiel watches as Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs with a heavy swallow. “She brought back Mom because she wanted me to be less angry at the world.” Unseeing, Dean picks at the belt of his robe. “Didn’t work out so great, did it?”

“You have good reason to be angry at the world,” Castiel says, shifting onto his side to look at Dean. “And there is no one, human or angel, who is entirely without flaws. You’re aware of yours, and you try to do better. That’s the most any of us can do.”

Dean doesn’t respond right away, but he raises his arm and waits for Castiel to move in closer, until he’s resting against the solid warmth of Dean’s shoulder. “I don't know about that, Cas. Today, I looked someone — an ancient, all-powerful someone, but still — right in the eye, and I lied to her.” Dean’s chest rises and falls with a heavy sigh. “I told her I’d never hurt her.”

“Did you mean it at the time?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Dean says, resting his chin on the crown of Castiel’s head. “I _wanted_ to mean it.”

“Then we'll find a way.” Castiel is taken aback by the conviction in his own voice. “We'll find a way where no one has to die. Not Jack, not Amara.”

“Except for Chuck. Chuck’s gotta go.”

Castiel hums a solemn agreement into the side of Dean’s neck. “He absolutely does. Screw him.”

That startles a chuckle out of Dean, and his chest vibrates so hard that even Castiel shakes with it. When Castiel looks up at Dean’s face, there’s ease and something almost like joy on it, the lines beside his eyes deepening, but the ones in his forehead smoothing out.

Smiling, Castiel surges up to kiss Dean’s laugh, to let it bubble into his lungs and fill him with even a fraction of the joy sparking behind Dean’s eyes.

He can still feel the upward curve of Dean’s lip against his when they connect. It’s warm and unhurried, at first, but there’s an urgency gnawing at Castiel’s mind: the knowledge that he needs to leave. He needs to find a way for their child to live; for _all_ his loved ones to make it through the coming battle. So he deepens their kiss, licking at the seam of Dean’s mouth and pulling at his robe, impatient to feel the give and shift of muscle under naked skin.

He sits up and pulls Dean along with him, shucking his jacket and tie. Their hands awkward and shaky with the need to touch, they leave a disordered heap of clothing on the floor, uncaring of the mess as they kiss, suck, lick and nip at each other. Castiel relishes each moan and whimper that falls from Dean’s lips, even as he forces his thoughts not to dwell on the unceasing chorus of _this could be the last time, this could be the last time._

Because, after all, in the kind of life they live, it could _always_ be the last time.

He strokes Dean to full hardness, gazing hungrily at the way his lover’s eyes glaze over, unfocused and hooded with pleasure. Something falls into place within him at the sight, and he thinks back to his testimony at Patchwork. He used to have nothing but blind faith in his Father and the cold comfort of being part of the Host. Now, he has a family, a place where he belongs, people that he’s chosen for himself and will continue to choose, over and over again, for as long as he’s able. The kind of faith he holds in his heart these days is anything but blind; he sees every last flaw in his family, and he chooses to believe in them anyway.

It suddenly seems very important to say so.

“I believe in us,” he whispers in Dean’s ear as he moves above and against him, wanting every inch of them to touch, to make them both forget that Castiel is meant to be leaving, yet again.

“Let me come with you,” Dean whispers back, reading Castiel’s mind even as his lips move softly against the rasp of Castiel’s cheek. “We’ll figure this thing out together.”

Castiel chooses not to answer, can’t begin to think of what to say, so he slides down Dean’s body to kiss at his chest, his hip bones, his navel. On this mission, he may need to go places where no human will be admitted. And, more importantly, the mission will be dangerous, and if he fails, he needs to know that Dean is still out there, safe and whole and able to care for Jack.

He reaches for the bedside table, feeling around the drawer past Dean’s gun to get at the small, purple bottle of lubricant tucked just behind it. If there’s one thing he wants before he leaves here, it’s a memory that will make him feel not merely wanted, but connected to Dean, to this thing between them, long after the door of the bunker creaks shut in his wake.

He catches Dean’s eye, running a hand through already disheveled hair, tracing the flush on Dean’s cheek with his thumb. “I want you inside me.”

Dean’s chest rises with an audible gasp, and he nods, frantically. “Yeah, Cas. Definitely.”

Castiel takes hold of Dean and rolls them over until Dean is poised above him. He meets Dean’s eyes, their shape and color already carved indelibly into his memory, but every additional glimpse a treasure he hoards all the same.

As Dean prepares him, Castiel lies back against the pillow, losing himself to the sensation of Dean’s fingers moving inside his body. After minutes, or perhaps hours, Dean lines himself up at Castiel’s entrance and slides inside, slowly, excruciatingly, inch by inch. Dean is a vision like this; his mouth falling open, jaw slack, features unschooled in a way Castiel never sees outside the bedroom.

When Dean is all the way inside, Castiel pulls him down, licking and nipping at Dean’s lips, fingers scrabbling down his back as Castiel tilts his hips up, wanting more sensation, more closeness, more of anything that Dean is willing to give.

No matter how much time has passed since their last encounter, this part never feels awkward or unpracticed; their bodies seem to remember each other, to know exactly how to fall into a rolling, graceful rhythm.

Dean murmurs praise and curses into Castiel’s skin, an endless, half-conscious litany of _fuck, Cas, so good, God, missed this, so fucking good_ until Castiel can feel something tensing at his core, filling him up until his skin feels too warm, too tight around him. Dean takes hold of Castiel’s cock then, working him with firm, sure strokes, and Castiel spills between them just as Dean tenses up and shouts his name into the semi-darkness of the room.

They curl up together, Dean warm and already sleep-heavy as he sags onto the mattress. Castiel allows himself to steal another moment: to watch Dean’s sandy lashes flutter closed, to press a kiss to his hairline. When he’s sure Dean is asleep, he rises and cleans himself off.

His limbs feel heavy as he maneuvers them back into his suit, his coat. He picks up his shoes off the floor and carries them, not wanting to make a sound. His hand already on the doorknob, he freezes when Dean says his name. Dean’s voice isn't the sleepy mumble Castiel would have expected. In fact, Dean is wide awake, lying on his side with his head propped up on one hand. He watches Castiel closely when he says, “You’d better make it back.”

Caught in Dean’s gaze, Castiel stills. A small eternity passes; too much time, and not nearly enough. “I’ll find a way,” he says, and steps through the door.

He walks quickly through the bunker and up the stairs to the exit, not wanting to give himself time to think of more reasons to stay. When he reaches his truck, still parked just outside the back door from his recent trip with Jack, he slides into the driver’s seat and pulls out his wallet.

In the innermost compartment, he keeps a picture: the one he took of Dean at Tombstone, in his cowboy hat. From the pocket of his coat, Castiel retrieves its match: the photograph of himself that he used to summon the crossroads demon. It's a little creased, but otherwise hasn't suffered from its brief sojourn underground.

He looks at the two pictures for a moment, then tucks them into his wallet. They look good this way, side by side.

Castiel stores his wallet in his coat and starts the car, then turns up the volume on the radio. He frowns at the whine of a country fiddle that emerges from the speakers, and leans over to open the glove box.

Pleased, he smiles when his fingers close around an old tape, labeled in blocky, messy script. He pushes it into the tape deck. As the first delicious whine of Jimmy Page’s guitar sounds through the cab of the truck, he steps on the accelerator and drives off into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I just HAD to use the picture. The picture!!
> 
> Comments are life! If you enjoyed this, please leave me one, or hit that kudos button. I really appreciate hearing your thoughts :) . 
> 
> If you really, REALLY enjoyed this, here's a [rebloggable tumblr post](https://friendofcarlotta.tumblr.com/post//the-space-between-well-fuck-dean-slumps)!
> 
> If you think you might like to read more of my writing in the future, you can subscribe to me on [my author page](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta)!
> 
> Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://friendofcarlotta.tumblr.com)!


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